Page 12 of Reeves

Two rows back, a senator leans toward the mayor, his voice pitched low but not low enough that I can't hear him. That could be on purpose, I'm not sure.

“Now that Robert’s gone, what happens to the river project?”

I don't turn around, but I know exactly which river project. The one worth four hundred million dollars in federal contracts. The one my father spent six years quietly engineering.

I know because I was twenty-two the night he explained it to me over dinner, expecting me to be impressed.

I enlisted two months later.

“The oldest has it under control,” the mayor replies. "It's been a seamless transition.”

Seamless.

As if there were never six sons standing here. As if continuity were automatic.

I stare at the back of the tent. This is what the name carries. Expectation. Continuation. The assumption that we will step into place without hesitation.

The formal service concludes with a prayer. Chairs shuffle softly against the grass as people stand. The gathering breaks into smaller clusters, sympathy dissolving into quiet business conversations. Hands shake, cards exchange, and deals begin to reform in the shadow of grief.

Nine months is apparently the right amount of time. That's long enough that condolences don’t sound rehearsed and that no one has to lower their voice when they say his name.

That's long enough for murder to be replaced with words like loss and tragedy. Although the official word is that it was a random mugging.

I remain seated for a moment longer, my gaze fixed on the portrait at the front of the tent while voices blend into a low current around me. No one can probably see that my jacket is snug across my shoulders. My black tie sits perfectly centered at my collar. From a distance, I look exactly where I belong.

Up close, perhaps not.

Ridge approaches once the last of the officials drift away. “We need to talk later,” he says, not asking.

“Better get with my assistant," I joke. Ridge is the one with an assistant, or maybe three. "I’m leaving in two weeks,” I answer evenly.

Thirteen days now, but who's counting?

“That’s more than we’ve had in years.”

I follow him to the veranda, where staff circulate with trays of whiskey. The memorial shifts gears, like a machine changing function while maintaining the same hum of efficiency.

My ears pick up fragments as I move through the clusters.

"...compliance review scheduled for Q3..."

"...restructuring the Gulf shipping routes..."

"...security protocols need updating since the container incident..."

A silver-haired executive nods toward me. "The prodigal son returns."

"Just for the memorial," I answer, my voice remaining flat. I don't even try to hide my disdain for this city.

"Shame. Robert always said you would come back to work forthe company one day. I know he would have liked to have seen that."

I ignore his passive-aggressive remark.

Ridge appears back at my elbow, guiding me toward the veranda railing. The breeze carries the river's smell of mud.

"How about now? I want to run something by you," he says.

"About?"